Month: December 2015

And it’s time to announce the winner of Best Character! Thank you so much to everyone who entered nominations back in October — you all have excellent taste. ^_^ And, of course, thank you to the authors for creating such amazing Book People.

Honestly, characters make or break a book for me. It can have an almost non-existent plot, but if the writing is good and the characters capture my heart and run away with it? Well, that book automatically jumps onto my favorites list.

Weighing each of the finalists in the balance and choosing the best out of all of them was hard. When you have three such incredible characters, the choice is not going to be easy.

JACE has to be my favorite character in the Ilyon Chronicles so far. He is a half-breed who used to be a slave and gladiator and he still struggles with the trauma of his scarring past, and the rejection of others because of his bloodline. It’s gut-wrenching and convicting to see his refusal to deny his faith, despite his deep fear that he may not even have a soul. He challenges me not to give up on the things that matter, no matter how hard the struggle might be.

ISIDORE believes herself unlovable, ugly, and left-out and her pain becomes so strong that she hurts even those trying to help her. She is a girl whose heart is splintered more with every blow it takes, and who draws the bleeding shards close to herself and away from others, believing that will keep her safe. Her story is one many can relate to, and seeing how her heart mended and opened to welcome others in was so beautiful it moved me to tears.

PERCEVAL as one of the Knights of the Round Table has an adventurous and demanding life. His evolution from a merry-hearted, untried youth to a mature, wise man is one of the best parts of Pendragon’s Heir. He is flawed, and impetuous which only makes him more realistic.

And the winner is…

PERCEVAL

His character embodies everything a hero ought to be, and yet he is still believably human with his own faults and temptations. There is a bright, clear essence about Perceval’s steel-true integrity that is wonderfully refreshing. I wish there were more heroes like him inmodern day literature.

*much applause and confetti*

I highly recommend you add all three of these fantastic books to your TBR.

Don’t forget to check out the winners in all the other categories of the 2015 Blogger Awards!

This contest was an amazing experience, and I was blown away by the sheer amount of people who entered. The talent and the clever usage of the prompts, the fascinating stories… there was so much to be in awe over, and Schuyler,Emily and I are incredibly honored in having the privilege to judge. You all did not make it easy on us. O.O

Anyone curious about who won?

Yes?

No?

*suspense builds*

Presenting….

Third Place:

We Three Gifts written by Sarah Holliday

Second Place:

Red, Yet White written by Victoria Marinov

First Place:

Song for Liselei written by Elisabeth Hayse

Congratulations, ladies, and well done! I’m so excited for you all. ^_^

I will be sharing Red, Yet White here on Curious Wren and you can visit Schuyler’s blog to read We Three Gifts and Emily’s blog will feature Song for Liselei.

As for those of you who didn’t win, rest assured, your stories were wonderful. We had a torturous time nearing down to the Top Three and because of that we are each going to have an Honorable Mentions section to honor the talent of some of you amazing writers. Seriously, I was so happy and pleased by all the entries. Thank you to everyone for making this the best experience for the SEA Scribblers that we could have asked for!

Honorable Mentions

Stardust: a retelling

Final Choice

The White City

Night Mission

And now for the Second Place entry…..

Red, Yet White

​Doesn’t Aunt Mae get it that the last thing I need right now is a boyfriend? Especially not one who goes to a fancy private school and has rich parents. Or has never known any pain in his life.

​I storm out of the back door and shut out Aunt Mae’s voice, pleading me to come back. No, I’m not going back. Bradley is an obnoxious, stuck-up brat. Anyone can see that. And besides, when he finds out who I really am, it’s going to break his shiny little heart made of golden foil. I don’t see why Mae is trying to set us up.

​I mean, she and Uncle Tim aren’t annoying people in general, except that they resemble the nerds you see on Animal Planet. Uncle Tim could’ve gone and had a brilliant career in Wall Street, but instead they came here to the middle of nowhere in Virginia and bought a few acres of forest, for no other reason except to make a “sanctuary” for baby wolves abandoned by their pack because of deformities. They raise the wolves here. They – the wolves – are all supposedly tame, but I still don’t like going out in the back yard too often.

​It’s much better than if I had gone to stay with Great-Uncle Carl, my other choice for Christmas. He’s this old, quiet dude with a mustache and he used to work with strategic intelligence. And besides, all the aunts on the other side of the family like to gossip that he was a spy for the KGB once. I’m not sure I believe that, but there’s no way I’m spending Christmas with him.

​The cold air forces me to button my jacket and rub my arms where the raw skin is. I wish I had put ointment on them. The cuts are over a month old, when I had my last fit, but for some reason they’re not healing. And the cold is making my skin all dry and weird. I never get that in California. Nor do we get snow.

​I leap over a patch of it, and Fassbender limps from behind a tree, wagging his tail. He comes up and sniffs my hands, and I rub his thick, warm fur.

​From the first day I arrived, I guess Fassbender took the responsibility of watching over me. I didn’t think wolves have a protective instinct, but I guess tame ones do. He’s really sweet, and somehow the presence of another broken being soothes me. Although he has it better than me. He’s deformed physically, with his foot. I’m deformed mentally. And that’s breaking me physically.

​I wonder why there isn’t a sanctuary for broken humans. Why is it that animals seem to get so many more privileges than people? It’s ridiculous.

​As I continue walking through the forest, I see a couple younger wolves running playfully in a circle. A robin, feathers puffed up against the cold on a branch I pass under, sings a couple notes before taking off. My ears are beginning to get cold, and I let my hair down from its ponytail. It’s one advantage of having ridiculously thick hair. I can use it to warm my head.

​Suddenly I realize that the candy cane Bradley gave me is still in my pocket. It’s all crushed now. I’ve never really liked candy canes. They remind me of myself. Bent, and so easily crushed. And red stripes.

​I shove it back in my pocket and reach over to touch Fassbender. His presence is reassuring. I’ve never really realized what a difference an animal can make, and I’m sort of glad he’s by me. After several minutes I reach the fence that ends the property. The gravel road passes right by it, and I lean against the fence and stare at it.

​There’s something inviting about roads. They stretch forever into the horizon, and you don’t know what’s over the bend. It could be something bad, but it could also be good. You would think with all that’s happened in my life I wouldn’t be so optimistic, but I guess I am. There’s always a chance for something different, if not better. I think that’s what’s keeping me alive. The hope that something better will come. I wish I have a promise that something better will come, because hope can seem so pointless sometimes.

​This road has a bend too, and I want to see what’s beyond it. So I climb over the fence and tell Fassbender that I’ll be back in a little bit. He sits down and looks at me with those large, soft eyes of his, almost pleading to come with me.

​“Sorry, boy,” I rub his head over the fence. “I’ll take care of myself, I promise.”

​The gravel turns to rough pavement shortly after the bend. The forest grows thick around the road, but ahead I see a clearing. I walk toward it, not really expecting anything, just wanting something to keep me going down this road. Because I need something. Desperately. Before I do something stupid.

​There’s a parking lot in the clearing, and it’s empty, except for an old pick-up truck that doesn’t look like it’s been driven since Charlemagne was crowned emperor. Across the parking lot a small, whitewashed church huddles in the clearing. Its steeple rises up toward the overcast sky, standing securely through the cold wind which suddenly blows through the clearing. Sudden memories come to me, of when I was in high school a couple years ago and my choir went on a trip to Europe, and we visited a cathedral. It had been so peaceful to sit in the old wooden pews with carved angels keeping guard high overhead.

​I don’t suppose a small church in the middle of nowhere will have that same effect, but I walk up to the doors anyhow. They’re unlocked. I tug them and walk inside. The lobby is empty, and a couple papers on the bulletin board flutter when I close the door. The sanctuary doors open more smoothly, and I shyly tiptoe in. The floors creaks under my steps, and it sounds frightfully loud in the empty building.

​I find a pew near the front and sit on the edge. It’s quiet and peaceful, but so terribly lonely. Loneliness feels like the ideal environment for dark thoughts to reproduce. And yet, the silence inside this church is soothing, in a way. The high ceiling and the grandness of it all somehow reminds me that my problems don’t really matter in the world. Nothing is going to be changed by my failures, and they won’t hurt anyone I love. There really isn’t anything to cry about, and I don’t really cry that much, but a couple tears slide down my cheek.

​Then I hear the door open, and someone walks across the sanctuary. It’s probably just a janitor or something. I hope the person hasn’t noticed me. The last thing I need right now is someone to disrupt my precious privacy. Maybe coming here was a bad idea.

​“Would you like me to sit with you?”

​I look up. There’s a guy standing by me. If these emotions weren’t here now, I would probably laugh, because he really looks like such a typical nerd. With the glasses and messy brown hair and the sweater and everything. But I really don’t care now. I shrug.

​“Sure, go ahead.”

​He sits beside and looks ahead, and I try to ignore him. This is awkward. I’m always awkward around guys. I’m always awkward around everyone, actually.

​“So, have you recently moved into the area?” he suddenly asks. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

​I wipe my nose on my sleeve, wondering why I wasn’t asked the normal “why are you crying” and “can I help you” that strangers normally ask me when they see me and my depression in the park.

​“Kinda. I’m visiting my aunt and uncle. The Reynolds.”

​“Oh, really? The ones who take care of the deformed wolf pups?”

​“Yeah, those.”

​“It must be great.”

​“Yeah, I guess.”

​I want to end this conversation. But I suddenly feel really rude, so I ask something before I realize it’s really stupid.

​“Do you live here?”

​“Yup. Just around the bend. My dad’s the pastor of this church.”

​“Oh.”

​“So is your family here too?”

​“No. My parents sent me here because they’re busy with some … legal things.” Their divorce, that is. I mean, they’ve never wanted me around anyway, so I’m sure why they really sent me away was so they wouldn’t have to drag their embarrassment of a daughter around at Christmas parties.

​“Hey, I know this is awkward,” he says, “but is there any way I can help you? I just saw you were kind of sad, and–”

​“It’s fine, really,” I cut him off. He won’t understand, especially if he’s a pastor’s son. There was this kid in my tenth-grade class who was a pastor’s son, and he was so perfect and holy and annoying, and I can’t stand these people.

​He shrugs. “Alright then, I just though I could help. I guess I’ll leave.”

​I watch him as he stands up. In a way, I don’t want him to leave. Someone else’s presence helps me from believing that I’m worthless and stupid, but he would never understand. He must have thrown his coat in the front pew and he reaches for it, and then I notice something, and stare, adrenaline surging through me. On his arms, there are lines, in the same places where my cuts are. Except mine are red. His are healed scars.

​“You too,” the words breathlessly tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them.

​He turns around and looks at me. “What?” Then, somehow, he understands. “Is that what–”

​“Yes,” I nod, and the tears come again. “I – I hate myself.” I pull my hand from my pocket and see that I’m still holding the crushed candy cane, and stare at it for the lack of anything else to do.

​Again he sits down by me and puts his arm around me. “I know,” he says after a moment of difficult silence. “I’ve been there. I did it too. I – I hurt myself too.”

​So I’m not the only one in the world. I resist the tears that force themselves through my eyes and wonder what to say. I don’t know what to say. My feelings sometimes feel too complicated to be put into words.

​“Have you ever heard of the legend of the candy cane?” he adds after a moment and points to the one I’m holding.

​I remember something vague from when I was in kindergarten. My teacher read us a picture book about the candy cane or something, but I don’t remember anything. “No, I haven’t,” I answer.

​“On Christmas we celebrate Jesus’ birth,” he says. “He came to be a shepherd to those who love Him.”

​When I was little and my dad still dragged us to church I used to hear this stuff. I’ve never really thought about it since then, though.

​“That’s why the candy cane is bent,” he continues, taking it from my hand. “Like a shepherd’s staff.”

​“Oh,” is all I can say.

​“You know He came to die as a sacrifice, right?”

​I nod.

​“The red stripes – they represent the blood that He shed for us on the cross. He suffered so we wouldn’t have to. You don’t have to bleed anymore,” he softens his voice, “because He already bled for you.”

​Why would anyone bleed for me? Why would anyone die for me? That’s what I never understood. “What about the white?” I ask hoarsely, running my finger across the candy cane.

​“We can be white – washed clean of our sins, if we turn to Him,” the young man tells me. “As white as snow. Your wounds will be healed if you believe that He died and rose again for you.”

​“Can– can I come here on Sunday?” I ask. I suddenly want to know more. Maybe this guy can help me. Maybe – maybe I really don’t have to bleed anymore.

​“Of course. Everyone’s invited.”

​“Thank you,” I try to smile appreciatively. “Thank– thank you for everything. Well, I probably have to be going,” I stand up after a couple silent moments.

​“Would you like me to walk you home?”

​“If it wouldn’t be out of your way …”

​“No, it wouldn’t,” he reassures me.

​We walk out of the church. It’s gotten cold, and definitely darker. And it’s snowing. There’s something magical and refreshing about snow. As white as snow, my companion’s words echo through my head. I suddenly realize that I want to be like that.

​We climb over the fence, and Fassbender comes trotting up and wagging his tail.

​“It’s alright,” I see my friend’s reluctance and laugh. How good that feels. “He’s perfectly tame.”

​“If you say so,” he says with a smile and reaches out to pet my wolfish friend. “What’s his name?”

​“Fassbender.”

​“Like the actor? That’s an interesting name for a wolf.”

​“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t really watch movies.”

​“What do you mean you don’t watch movies?” he looks at me incredulously.

​I shrug. “I don’t know. I’ve never really been interested. I don’t even remember the last time I watched anything.”

​We continue silently through the woods and soon reach the house. I guess most of the sanctuary’s inhabitants have retreated into their kennels, which I’m thankful for. I wouldn’t feel safe in a dark wood with wolves around.

​“Well, this is me,” I say. “Thanks for, uh, everything. I feel better.”

​He smiles. I never noticed until now how kind and genuine his smile is. “I know what you’re going through, and I’ve gone through it. And I want to help you.”

​“Thanks,” is all I can say.

​“By the way, I was thinking, do you want to go see a movie together? After church this Sunday?”

​“Um, sure, I would love to. I’ll ask my aunt, but I think she’ll be okay with it.”

​“Oh, and, Destiny, I forgot to return your candy cane.” He hands it to me.

​“Thanks,” I accept it and fumble for a moment in the dark. “Have a good evening.”

​He returns my farewell and walks away into the dark. I close the door, walk into the lighted kitchen and dust my boots on the carpet. Uncle Tim and Aunt Mae are talking in the dining room. By their voices I can tell that they’re not discussing me, so I head that way. But before I head in, I look at the candy cane in my hand, and stop. It’s not my crushed one. This one’s whole and new, and bigger.

​I smile when I realize that Gabriel must have had this one and given it to me. Fingering it, I think of our conversation in the church.I don’t have to bleed anymore, because One already bled for me.

Tilly’s Christmas

“I’m so glad to-morrow is Christmas, because I’m going to have lots of presents.”

“So am I glad, though I don’t expect any presents but a pair of mittens.”

“And so am I; but I shan’t have any presents at all.”

As the three little girls trudged home from school they said these things, and as Tilly spoke, both the others looked at her with pity and some surprise, for she spoke cheerfully, and they wondered how she could be happy when she was so poor she could have no presents on Christmas.

“Don’t you wish you could find a purse full of money right here in the path?” said Kate, the child who was going to have ” lots of presents.”

“Oh, don’t I, if I could keep it honestly!” and Tilly’s eyes shone at the very thought.

“What would you buy?” asked Bessy, rubbing her cold hands, and longing for her mittens.

“I’d buy a pair of large, warm blankets, a load of wood, a shawl for mother, and a pair of shoes for me; and if there was enough left, I’d give Bessy a new hat, and then she needn’t wear Ben’s old felt one,” answered Tilly.

The girls laughed at that; but Bessy pulled the funny hat over her ears, and said she was much obliged, but she’d rather have candy.

“Let’s look, and may be we can find a purse. People are always going about with money at Christmas time, and some one may lose it here,” said Kate.

So, as they went along the snowy road, they looked about them, half in earnest, half in fun. Suddenly Tilly sprang forward, exclaiming,

“I see it! I’ve found it!”

The others followed, but all stopped disappointed; for it wasn’t a purse, it was only a little bird. It lay upon the snow with its wings spread and feebly fluttering, as if too weak to fly. Its little feet were benumbed with cold; its once bright eyes were dull with pain, and instead of a blithe song, it could only utter a faint chirp, now and then, as if crying for help.

“Nothing but a stupid old robin; how provoking!” cried Kate, sitting down to rest.

“I shan’t touch it. I found one once, and took care of it, and the ungrateful thing flew away the minute it was well,” said Bessy, creeping under Kate’s shawl, and putting her hands under her chin to warm them.

“Poor little birdie! How pitiful he looks, and how glad he must be to see some one coming to help him! I’ll take him up gently, and carry him home to mother. Don’t be frightened, dear, I’m your friend;” and Tilly knelt down in the snow, stretching her hand to the bird with the tenderest pity in her face.

Kate and Bessy laughed.

“Don’t stop for that thing; it’s getting late and cold: let’s go on and look for the purse,” they said, moving away.

“You wouldn’t leave it to die?’ cried Tilly. “I’d rather have the bird than the money, so I shan’t look any more. The purse wouldn’t be mine, and I should only be tempted to keep it; but this poor thing will thank and love me, and I’m so glad I came in time.”

Gently lifting the bird, Tilly felt its tiny cold claws cling to her hand, and saw its dim eyes brighten as it nestled down with a grateful chirp.

“Now I’ve got a Christmas present after all,” she said, smiling, as -they walked on. ” I always wanted a bird, and this one will be such a pretty pet for me!”

“He’ll fly away the first chance he gets, and die anyhow; so you’d better not waste your time over him,” said Bessy.

“He can’t pay you for taking care of him, and my mother says it isn’t worth while to help folks that can’t help us,” added Kate.

“My mother says, ‘Do as you’d be done by;’ and I’m sure I’d like any one to help me if I was dying of cold and hunger. ‘Love your neighbor as yourself’ is another of her sayings. This bird is my little neighbor, and I’ll love him and care for him, as I often wish our rich neighbor would love and care for us,” answered Tilly, breathing her warm breath over the benumbed bird, who looked up at her with confiding eyes, quick to feel and know a friend.

“What a funny girl you are,” said Kate, “caring for that silly bird, and talking about loving your neighbor in that sober way. Mr. King don’t care a bit for you, and never will, though he knows how poor you are; so I don’t think your plan amounts to much.”

“I believe it, though; and shall do my part, any way. Good-night. I hope you’ll have a merry Christmas, and lots of pretty things,” answered Tilly, as they parted.

Her eyes were full, and she felt so poor as she went on alone toward the little old house where she lived. It would have been so pleasant to know that she was going to have some of the pretty things all children love to find in their full stockings on Christmas morning. And pleasanter still to have been able to give her mother something nice. So many comforts were needed, and there was no hope of getting them ; for they could barely get food and fire.

“Never mind, birdie, we’ll make the best of what we have, and be merry in spite of everything. You shall have a happy Christmas, any way; and I know God won’t forget us, if every one else does.”

She stopped a minute to wipe her eyes, and lean her cheek against the bird’s soft breast, finding great comfort in the little creature, though it could only love her, nothing more.

“See, mother, what a nice present I’ve found,” she cried, going in with a cheery face that was like sunshine in the dark room.

“I’m glad of that, dearie; for I haven’t been able to get my little girl any thing but a rosy apple. Poor bird ! Give it some of your warm bread and milk.”

“Why, mother, what a big bowlful ! I’m afraid you gave me all the milk,” said Tilly, smiling over the nice, steaming supper that stood ready for her.

“I’ve had plenty, dear. Sit down and dry your wet feet, and put the bird in my basket on this warm flannel.”

Tilly peeped into the closet and saw nothing there but dry bread.

” Mother’s given me all the milk, and is going without her tea, ’cause she knows I’m hungry. Now I’ll surprise her, and she shall have a good supper too. She is going to split wood, and I’ll fix it while she’s gone.”

So Tilly put down the old tea-pot, carefully poured out a part of the milk, and from her pocket produced a great, plummy bun, that one of the school-children had given her, and she had saved for her mother. A slice of the dry bread was nicely toasted, and the bit of butter set by for her put on it. When her mother came in there was the table drawn up in a warm place, a hot cup of tea ready, and Tilly and birdie waiting for her.

Such a poor little supper, and yet such a happy one; for love, charity, and contentment were guests there, and that Christmas eve was a blither one than that up at the great house, where lights shone, fires blazed, a great tree glittered, and music sounded, as the children danced and played.

“We must go to bed early, for we’ve only wood enough to last over to-morrow. I shall be paid for my work the day after, and then we can get some,” said Tilly’s mother, as they sat by the fire.

“If my bird was only a fairy bird, and would give us three wishes, how nice it would be! Poor dear, he can’t give me anything; but it’s no matter,” answered Tilly, looking at the robin, who lay in the basket with his head under his wing, a mere little feathery bunch.

“He can give you one thing, Tilly, the pleasure of doing good. That is one of the sweetest things in life; and the poor can enjoy it as well as the rich.”

As her mother spoke, with her tired hand softly stroking her little daughter’s hair, Tilly suddenly started and pointed to the window, saying, in a frightened whisper,

“Some traveller attracted by the light perhaps. I’ll go and see.” And Tilly’s mother went to the door.

No one was there. The wind blew cold, the stars shone, the snow lay white on field and wood, and the Christmas moon was glittering in the sky.

“What sort of a face was it?” asked Tilly’s mother, coming back.

“A pleasant sort of face, I think ; but I was so startled I don’t quite know what it was like. I wish we had a curtain there,” said Tilly.

“I like to have our light shine out in the evening, for the road is dark and lonely just here, and the twinkle of our lamp is pleasant to people’s eyes as they go by. We can do so little for our neighbors, I am glad to cheer the way for them. Now put these poor old shoes to dry, and go to bed, dearie; I’ll come soon.”

Tilly went, taking her bird with her to sleep in his basket near by, lest he should be lonely in the night.

Soon the little house was dark and still, and no one saw the Christmas spirits at their work that night.

When Tilly opened the door next morning, she gave a loud cry, clapped her hands, and then stood still, quite speechless with wonder and delight. There, before the door, lay a great pile of wood, all ready to burn, a big bundle and a basket; with a lovely nosegay of winter roses, holly, and evergreen tied to the handle.

“Oh, mother! did the fairies do it?” cried Tilly, pale with her happiness, as she seized the basket, while her mother took in the bundle.

“Yes, dear, the best and dearest fairy in the world, called ‘Charity.’ She walks abroad at Christmas time, does beautiful deeds like this, and does not stay to be thanked,” answered her mother with full eyes, as she undid the parcel.

There they were, the warm, thick blankets, the comfortable shawl, the new shoes, and, best of all, a pretty winter hat for Bessy. The basket was full of good things to eat, and on the flowers lay a paper saying,

“For the little girl who loves her neighbor as herself .”

“Mother, I really think my bird is a fairy bird, and all these splendid things come from him,” said Tilly, laughing and crying with joy.

It really did seem so, for as she spoke, the robin flew to the table, hopped to the nosegay, and perching among the roses, began to chirp with all his little might. The sun streamed in on flowers, bird, and happy child, and no one saw a shadow glide away from the window ; no one ever knew that Mr. King had seen and heard the little girls the night before, or dreamed that the rich neighbor had learned a lesson from the poor neighbor.

And Tilly’s bird was a fairy bird ; for by her love and tenderness to the helpless thing, she brought good gifts to herself, happiness to the unknown giver of them, and a faithful little friend who did not fly away, but stayed with her till the snow was gone, making summer for her in the winter-time.

I’m incredibly excited about this because a.) this particular book is one I really, really, really want to read, and b.) cover reveals/release days are my favorite.

What is the book about, you ask? Read on, my friends.

The Bureau of Time

You can not change fate.

Cassandra Wright is a Timewalker – a teenager with a genetic mutation that allows her to manipulate the flow of time. But her inexplicable powers have made her a target for Adjusters – monstrous assassins from a parallel universe.

Saved from almost certain death, Cassie is pulled into a secret agency sworn to defend our timeline against these threats: the Bureau of Temporal Integrity, Monitoring, and Execution. Cassie’s life soon becomes entwined with Shaun Briars – a reckless Timewalker with an alluring smile and dark suspicions about the Bureau itself.

When Cassie and Shaun cross into the parallel universe, they discover a world in the grips of nuclear winter, with a new war threatening to spill over into our universe. With time running out, they must learn the true history of Timewalkers, confront the unforgivable crimes of their future selves, and defy their own fate to save two worlds.

Join the Conversation: #TheBureauOfTime

And now for the cover reveal!

*flings red and silver glitter everywhere* *trumpet fanfare*

(loving the red and the eagle and the symbolism of the hourglass and the shinyyy.)

THE BUREAU OF TIME is the debut YA SF/thriller novel from Brett Michael Orr, available on the American, Australian, British, and Canadian Amazon stores, and soon to be available on all digital reading platforms, including Kobo, iBookstore, and more.

I’m so excited about this book, y’all!! Most of you know how much I love science fiction and since this is time-travel science fiction it makes me even happier. Plus, I asked Brett and he assured me that The Bureau of Time is free of sexual content (it does have some mild swearing) which is so. much. yes. Maybe somebody will buy it for me for Christmas?

Make sure you check out the hashtag, share your thoughts with me on The Bureau of Time‘s awesome cover and how much you want to read it. And maybe even buy a few copies as Christmas pressies! You know you want to. *nudges you towards Amazon*

My friend Hannah had this clever idea to create a taggy thing to celebrate Christmas and get in the spirit of happiness and good-will — or more in the spirit if you happen to already be there! And she tagged me because she’s sweet like that. And so did Olivia. They both deserve chocolate chips, methinks.

Rules:

Answer prompts with the wintery/Christmassy theme in mind.

Tag at least 5 of your blogger-buddies to take part.

Use the title picture I provided above.

Spread the love around!

1.) Favorite “snuggle weather” Books

The Wind in the Willows is, hands down, the best “snuggle weather” in the history of ever. Also,

The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green, that it looked a perfect grove; from every part of which, bright gleaming berries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light, as if so many little mirrors had been scattered there; and such a mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney, as that dull petrification of a hearth had never known in Scrooge’s time, or Marley’s, or for many and many a winter season gone. Heaped up on the floor, to form a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, great joints of meat, sucking-pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch, that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam.

— A Christmas Carol

Every Christmas season at some point all of us siblings congregate together and spend a glorious several hours decorating sugar cookies — creating wreaths of colors impossible in nature, giving angels blue wings and Christmas trees snow on their branches. Icing ends up on everything, including on our faces. Sleigh Ride and Feliz Navidad and The Little Drummer Boy play in the background, drowned out at times by our laughter.

Christmas food is very important in our household. Every year we make our traditional gingerbread men, sugar cookies, homemade hot chocolate, candied nuts… and in honor of the season, I thought a few recipes would be a perfect addition in the #CuriousWrenChristmasCountdown.

Heat oven to 350 degrees. Roll dough 1/4 inch thick on floured surface (I sometimes use powdered sugar instead of flour). Cut with floured (powdered sugared) cookie cutters. Place about 2 inches apart on cookie sheet. Bake until no indentation remains when touched, about 10 to 12 minutes. Cool. Frost. Prepare to want to eat all of the gingerbread in one seating. Recommend festive Christmas music to enhance the scene.

Is your mouth watering yet? What are some of your favorite/traditional holiday treats? And which one of these recipes makes you the hungriest? (Personally, I just really want some Oreo truffles.)

There fared a mother driven forth
Out of an inn to roam;
In the place where she was homeless
All men are at home.
The crazy stable close at hand,
With shaking timber and shifting sand,
Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand
Than the square stones of Rome.

For men are homesick in their homes,
And strangers under the sun,
And they lay on their heads in a foreign land
Whenever the day is done.
Here we have battle and blazing eyes,
And chance and honour and high surprise,
But our homes are under miraculous skies
Where the yule tale was begun.

A Child in a foul stable,
Where the beasts feed and foam;
Only where He was homeless
Are you and I at home;
We have hands that fashion and heads that know,
But our hearts we lost – how long ago!
In a place no chart nor ship can show
Under the sky’s dome.

This world is wild as an old wives’ tale,
And strange the plain things are,
The earth is enough and the air is enough
For our wonder and our war;
But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings
And our peace is put in impossible things
Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings
Round an incredible star.

To an open house in the evening
Home shall men come,
To an older place than Eden
And a taller town than Rome.
To the end of the way of the wandering star,
To the things that cannot be and that are,
To the place where God was homeless
And all men are at home.